


Compos Mentis

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Have you attended your criminal psych eval today?, Les Clefs d'Or, Loyalty, Pre-Canon, Scarification, Service, Trolley Problem, Worldbuilding: Concierge Training, Worldbuilding: Continental Hotels, bottle episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22908250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Charon visits the Continental Doctor on Winston’s orders.
Relationships: Charon & Continental Hotel Doctor (John Wick), Charon & Winston (John Wick)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2020





	Compos Mentis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [domarzione](https://archiveofourown.org/users/domarzione/gifts).



“And how is your shoulder?” Winston asked without preamble. Despite this clear accusation, the Manager of the New York Continental seemed relaxed and not the least bit agitated or even annoyed. Winston took a look around the mouth of the lobby, and when he was satisfied that no one was paying him any mind, he learned forward to put his elbows almost conspiratorially on the Front Desk.

“My shoulder is fine,” Charon assured him. “Could I assist you with anything, sir?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” Winston said, waving the question away.

“I assumed you would.” Charon was conscious of how tall and straight he stood, and he made the quick decision to incline his head at a deferential angle. This too, was not to assuage Winston’s anger, when and if it came (the Manager was not an angry person, for an ill temper was both unbecoming and unproductive), but simply as an acknowledgement of his station and his willingness to serve. “I wasn’t meaning to hide it from you. I apologize if I gave that impression.”

“You didn’t really.” Winston looked him up and down. “Look at me, please.”

Charon did, raising only his eyes, mindful of the rest of his posture. “Yes, sir.”

“Go see the Doctor. His office is in the bowels,” Winston said, once he was certain he had Charon's complete attention. “The rest of your cohort has already gone through the test. We have a way of doing things around here. I’ll get someone else to stand behind the desk.”

“But, sir,” Charon started, then thought better of it. Instead, he said, “Have I offended you?”

“If you did, you’d know it,” Winston said shortly. “Best to get going, I think. I’ll still need you back here for the evening rush.” With that, Winston turned to head towards the lifts again, leaving Charon staring after him.

*

In the few short months he’d been at the Continental in New York, Charon had seen his cohort of fellow concierge hopefuls whittled down from eight, to five, and then to three. Their reasons for leaving were wide and varied. One had died under mysterious circumstances; another had left New York for greener pastures in Istanbul; and one had been fired personally by Winston in front of patrons at the bar just last week.

Never in his life had Charon expected to find himself keeping such colorful company, but years and years in service had likewise taught him to expect nothing at all.

The office of the Continental Doctor was located in what Winston and the rest of the hotel staff affectionately (or not) called its bowels. Though Charon hardly stood for the implication, one of the leftover hopefuls opined to Charon that it wasn’t a bad take of the place: “Shit’s got to go somewhere; if it doesn’t, we’re all fucked.”

The bowels of the Continental were comprised of a series of sprawling underground tunnels left over from the Prohibition. Some were dead ends, and some were not. The Doctor’s office was located in one such dead-end, within a stone’s throw of the kitchen because certain line cooks were prone to losing their thumbs during the dinner rush.

“You don’t appear to be injured,” said the Doctor, “and you don’t work in the kitchen.” He was a stooping, unassuming man with wide-rimmed glasses, perhaps around Winston's age. For the moment, the frames sat askew on the Doctor's pale fleshy face, as if he'd put them on in a hurry. 

“I am in possession of both of my thumbs,” Charon confirmed. But just in case, he checked. Once he was satisfied that all of his limbs and extremities were where they ought to be, Charon straightened up once more. “And all my limbs, sir. I’m here because the Manager sent me.”

"I see." The Doctor nodded. He appeared to regard Charon with renewed interest. "You're one of the hopefuls to fill the vacancy at the Front Desk. It's a tough gig. I understand that someone was let go in the bar last week. Caused quite a stir. News of it even floated to me down here. Well, come in."

Charon obeyed, closing the door behind him. After that, he surveyed the snug space of the office, scarcely big enough for two occupants. There was a desk, a shelf full of medical reference volumes, and an infirmary bed.

"And another thing," the Doctor said, settling himself in his chair. He stifled a yawn. " - Excuse me. My name is Hwang, and that is how you may address me. Either that, or Doctor. But never, 'sir.'"

"Why not?"

"Because you and I are in service, Charon." Hwang smiled, the curve of his mouth thin and hard, as if to ward off any possibility of humor. It was something that Charon appreciated about the other man already. Hwang continued, "The thing about being in service, is that you’ll never have the chance to speak freely. I don’t stand above you, and you’d do well to remember that.” Hwang waved a hand towards the infirmary bed. "Please, have a seat. I'm sorry for the state of things. They keep promising me a bigger office, but that's even lower on the list than finding me staff." The smile turned sour, as Hwang seemed to find some tired enjoyment in his joke. "I keep saying to Winston that one of Charlie's boys will do. I just need someone not too squeamish. Someone well acquainted with the risk of death."

There were several things buried in Hwang's soliloquy that were surprising to Charon, but taken one at a time, perhaps they weren't so unexpected. "I think I'd rather stand. You know who I am?"

"Things make their way down to the bowels," Hwang said, "sooner or later. Didn't you hear the joke about the shit?"

Charon asked, "Is it a joke?"

"Sometimes, it's the only way we can all speak freely." Hwang shrugged.

Charon stood still. When he closed his eyes, he was at once aware of everything around him on a granular level. The slightly thick, dusty air that he inhaled, the grating creak of Hwang's swivel chair when the doctor made the slightest movement. Then Charon opened his eyes again. "Is it also your habit to call the Manager by his name, Doctor?"

"I don't see the Manager in this room. I have it swept for bugs, every so often." Hwang glanced at him, brief but pointed all the same. "And it's funny what a man will let you get away with once you've snatched him out from the jaws of death. But rest assured, I don't do that to his face." Hwang cleared his throat after that, also pointedly, as if to insist that the matter was closed. "Anyway, you're here for something else."

Charon nodded. "Yes."

Hwang bent forward and extracted a set of heavy keys on a ring from inside his white coat, selected one, and opened a drawer. From the drawer, he picked out one thin file among many. "Here you are. I don't understand why they make me do this. It is really not my area of expertise. I'm barely qualified as it is."

"Does the Manager know that?"

"There's very little the Manager doesn't know," Hwang said, "you know that. It's why you're here, too."

Charon decided that Hwang had a point, but it wasn't really worth dwelling over. Instead he said, "Except the kitchen staff still have their thumbs."

Hwang said, "That's not so difficult. I bet you could do it. It's a little like sewing a button." He eyed Charon anew, as if paying special attention to his sleeves this time around. "You do know how, yes?"

Charon adjusted his sleeves just in case and moved on. "Will you relay to him the contents of our conversation here today?" The Doctor might have been confident enough in his ability to catch wayward bugs hiding in the narrow crannies of his office, but Charon had his own skin to worry about. Perhaps the bowels of the Continental would be less kind to him the next time he had the privilege.

"In broad strokes," Hwang confirmed. "I'll have to write a recommendation after you leave. It will be read by relevant members of the High Table, and made available to the Manager, should he be interested. As a favor to you, I might not even dwell too long on the fact that you seem to have skipped several steps."

"I appreciate that." Something else Charon appreciated more, perhaps, was Hwang's devotion to practicality. That he didn't need to know the intimate details, just enough of the broad strokes, so that Charon was more or less saved from having to explain himself.

"Provided you let me examine your cicatrix." Hwang gestured. "I confess, I've never seen one of those things in the works."

At this, Charon hesitated. In his clear moment of weakness, he felt that his cicatrix was a private thing, even though there had been many individuals present when the intricate design was etched into his skin. He was told that the process would take a number of weeks, spread over time to make sure that the cicatrix would properly take form on his body. Finally, he figured it was quid pro quo after a fashion, and made short work of removing his suit jacket, laying it out flat on the infirmary bed.

After that, he undid enough buttons on his neatly pressed shirt to expose his cicatrix in the works. Charon had to crane his neck to look back at it, the permanent bumps of scarred tissue irritated by various methods: an ointment, and also other physical means to make sure the marks healed as slowly as they ought to. Then Charon straightened up and strode over to where the doctor was sitting, turned his back to give him a full view. When the design was complete, about two weeks from now, a series of precise interlinking triangles would be wrought around his left trapezius.

"How is your shoulder?" Hwang asked. He reached out a hand, and then seemed to think better of it.

"I am not in too much pain." Charon shrugged, telling the truth. He dressed again, and retreated a respectable distance towards the infirmary bed. He was in some discomfort, but it wasn't unusual. And despite his long-standing tolerance for pain, he found that he was grateful to Hwang after all, for exercising restraint. “The Manager asked me the same thing.”

”Oh? What did you tell him?”

”That I was fine.” The moment the words left his mouth, Charon regretted them immensely and immediately. Although Hwang held nothing in his hands, Charon felt the doctor’s intentions very keenly, as if Hwang were holding a metaphorical scalpel. “I am fine.”

Hwang crossed his arms. He seemed to come to another decision and inclined his head. “We can start with the Manager, if you’d like. There are some who say he’s playing favorites.”

”Not with me,” said Charon. If he were any more green, he might have been offended.

”But you met the Manager on your own terms, while he wasn’t staying at a Continental. That in itself is already quite unusual.” Hwang closed the file, as if he’d had enough of it. “And it was he that recommended that you train in New York after this meeting.”

”I made quite an impression on him,” Charon agreed, “or rather, the company I was keeping at the time did that on my behalf.”

”The company.” Hwang leaned forward in his chair.

”I was in the company of a dog at the time,” said Charon. “She was an Otterhound puppy, about six months old. There are only a handful of them left worldwide, if the latest Kennel Association records can be taken as accurate. And it was about four in the morning.”

Now Hwang appeared properly interested.”What was the Manager doing up at four in the morning?”

”Having a brandy.” It was not an answer that was strictly true, but would serve well enough.

”I see,” Hwang said; there seemed to be a moment when he was debating with himself, whether to push the subject further. “What, erm, inspired this change in vocation? You could have chosen to work anywhere.”

To emphasize his point, the doctor gestured at the gold pin of two crossed keys that Charon still wore on his lapel even now. He’d always worn it since he’d received it, and so far, Winston hadn’t requested that Charon remove it from his person. It was a reminder of how the two worlds were not so far apart. 

”I was working in a hotel then, and I’m working in a hotel now,” Charon told him. “The Continental isn’t under the general influence of Les Clefs d’Or but that is of little consequence to me.”

”Do you really think there’s no difference?” Hwang pressed.

”It’s service all the same, Doctor.”

”Let me put it to you this way.” Hwang drew out the words and had to pause and think. “Do you have hobbies, Charon? Things you do in your spare time for private enjoyment?”

Charon had an answer ready, though he doubted it was an answer the Doctor was looking for. ”I engage in standing meditation daily. I find it very comforting, when the exercise helps me come back to myself.”

”Miss Park had her evaluation with me last week,” said Hwang. “She said her hobby was hassling the Sommelier for new guns.”

Charon took a moment to consider this and had to agree. ”It’s not my preference, but I can see how Miss Park might enjoy that.”

Hwang sighed, “I have one last question for you, and then you may go. Are you familiar with the trolley problem?”

Charon said, “I think so, yes.”

”Let me remind you anyway.” Hwang seemed to relax, as they approached familiar territory. “You’re on a runaway train, and you come to a crossroad. On one track, there are a group of people, and on the other track, there is but one man. Where would you direct the train, assuming that it can’t be stopped?”

Charon searched the doctor’s face and found nothing. This was just as well, as he wasn’t certain what he was meant to be looking for. “We are not really speaking about a train.” 

“No.” 

“Then I find this a useless exercise.” 

Hwang was still watching him carefully, not even moving a muscle. “On the contrary, it’s make or break, Charon. But say I do you a service and let you take as long as you need. Since I too, am in service.” His lips curled flatly at his own joke but for a fleeting moment. 

For the first time in this strange meeting with Hwang, Charon felt truly like he was on the back foot, unable to find his balance. He opted to lean back against the edge of the infirmary bed. This concession didn’t escape Hwang’s notice, but the doctor still said nothing and waited. 

“I’d save the man,” Charon said finally. “The one man.” 

“That's interesting. Why?” 

“Because we’re not really talking about whether one man’s life is worth that of many,” Charon said. “And so it doesn’t matter. Unless it does.” 

Hwang said, “Let’s pretend that it does. Not to me, but maybe, to the High Table.”

That he was able to speak freely in the Doctor’s office suddenly seemed a fact less assured, now that the High Table was involved. The Table was also in the process of being indelibly printed upon his body, though so far Charon had cause not to think about it. Now it was all he thought about, like a dull ache behind his eyes when he hadn’t got enough sleep. “The Table?” 

“They didn’t say anything to you?” 

“At the ritual, I wasn’t allowed to speak,” said Charon. “That I shall know my place as a concierge. That I should remember what it was like, to be in pain.” 

Now, Hwang looked at him askance. “I thought you said you weren’t in too much pain.” 

“Speaking freely, I deal well with pain,” Charon affirmed. “You said I should, that is, speak freely.” 

“I did say that.” Hwang nodded. He was already moving, closing the file, locking it away in the drawer once more, seemingly preparing for Charon’s dismissal. 

Glad for the reprieve, Charon stole a glance at his watch. He was surprised, despite himself, to find that so much time had lapsed despite the fact that he felt he’d spoken very little. 

Yet what came out of the doctor’s mouth next belied his actions: “Are you happy with the choice you’ve made? Are you certain you won’t change your mind?” 

“Are you threatening me, s—” before he could complete the question, Charon remembered himself, “—Doctor?” 

“Do I need to? I thought we agreed to be sensible,” said Hwang. “I only want to remind you that it is your choice to make, and not anyone else’s. And I’m glad for it. For myself, I wouldn’t have been half as brave.” 

After that, Hwang gestured towards the door, and Charon was dismissed before he could ask what the Doctor meant.

*

It was only after the evening rush of guests, some making a beeline for the bar for the latest gossip, some others wanting a room, and still others, who wanted a smidgen of the Manager’s valuable time, that Charon found himself alone. 

Alone, with listless seconds ticking by in his skull, Charon was aware of the slight ache of his shoulder and reached to grip himself around the back of the neck, as if to give in to one form of discomfort should alleviate another. 

“All right?” said Winston, approaching from the direction of the bar with a drink in hand. He didn’t often do this, so Charon figured it must be of paramount importance and stood as such to attention. 

“Fine, sir.” 

“Bulls in a china shop this evening, that lot.” Winston sipped casually from his drink. 

“Shall I inform Housekeeping?” 

“Perhaps in a little while,” Winston said, eyeing his shoulder. “You should have asked the Doctor to provide you with some painkillers.” 

Charon shook his head. “That would have defeated the exercise, sir. I really don’t mind.” 

“It occurs to me that all we do around here is exercise and we do precious little.” Winston looked at him up and down. “Did he ask you about the train?” 

“Yes.” 

“And what did you say?” 

The world around Charon suddenly grew immeasurably narrow. Although he was adept enough at keeping all sorts of unrelated fragments in mind, as was required of him, he suddenly forgot everything. 

“In the name of service, I said I’d save the one man,” Charon told him. “The Doctor asked me if I’d like to change my mind.”

“Hm,” Winston made a noncommittal sound, “and did you?” 

“No, sir.” 

“I imagine the Table won’t be too pleased about that. They like to take the utilitarian approach to things. Like any Tom, Dick, or Harry can do a Manager's job.” Winston’s mouth appeared as though it was trying to make up its mind about something. Then it gave up. “I look forward to seeing the Doctor’s report.” 

“I do not serve the Table, though one could argue it subjugates me,” said Charon. “My responsibilities are to the guests of the Continental Hotel and to the safety of its proprietor." He felt compelled to add, "Dr. Hwang does not stand above me and he is too, in service. I think the two of us understand each other.” 

“Indeed.” Winston looked like he wanted to say something else, but then a loud series of pops came from the direction of the bar. Winston looked eminently displeased and knocked back his drink in one smooth swallow. “Perhaps you’d better call Housekeeping, after all.” 

Charon already had the phone in hand, dialing. “Yes sir, right away.”

**Author's Note:**

> I choose to believe that entry into the Les Clefs d'Or requires knowing how to [acquire a pink poodle in the dead of night.](https://medium.com/@gordyandpaula/about-the-golden-key-hotel-concierge-les-clefs-dor-156217b5e3a4) Nobody can tell me different.


End file.
